


Living Without Dying

by anonymous_John_H_Watson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Deductions, Depression, Emotional, F/M, Feelings Realization, Hallucinations, Hurt John Watson, Imagination, Jealous John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentioned Irene Adler, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mentioned Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Worries, Nightmares, Past Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sad, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Suicide, Therapy, Trying to move on, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_John_H_Watson/pseuds/anonymous_John_H_Watson
Summary: Sherlock died. And so, John died a little.Post Reichanbach fall.





	Living Without Dying

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fan fic! Please feel free to leave comments. I'm open to criticism.

Bullets ricocheted. Injuries inflicted. Lives lost. Breathing hard. Eyes closed. Sherlock. Sherlock? John tightened his hold on his gun and ran towards him in the middle of bullets, bombs and blood. The sun blinded his eyes as he shouted,  
"Sherlock, run!"  
But Sherlock stood very still and suddenly the world around him changed. They were no longer in Afghanistan, but in England. Sherlock was on top of a buliding while John watched from below.  
"Please," he pleaded. "Don't do this."  
John watched as his best friend threw away his phone and so, threw away the only way to talk to John and stepped forward. He watched in disbelief as Sherlock's body fell towards Earth, prey to gravity. And for a moment, for a moment, John hoped, wished, dreamed, believed, Sherlock could fly. He smiled, please, let him fly. But was then hit by a cycle and landed like his friend, smack on the floor. 

He was soon up but he wasn't in England or Afghanistan for that matter, but his room. Realizing it was all a dream, he turned over to see Mary asleep. She hadn't noticed. In the dark, his hands searched for his phone on the bedside table. The screen read 7 am. It wasn't very early, he grabbed the phone and went to the washroom. He studied the new scratches on his phone where he had tried to plug in the charger.  
"It was dark." He said in an attempt to justify them.  
"No." He heard Sherlock say.  
"Sod off!" John replied.  
He stared at his reflection. How long until his mind would stop playing tricks on him? The reality was, John was grateful for the occasional voice in his head that resembled Sherlock. Grateful for his snarky remarks. It made it seem like Sherlock had never left.  
John sighed, took off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The cold water made him jump and step out. His heart started beating violently. He chuckled in response. Sherlock always noticed when someone's pulse quickened, when their pupils dilated, when they felt sentimental. He noticed Irene's love for him. But the bastard never stared into John's eyes long enough to see that his pupils were dilated too, never held his wrist long enough to realize his pulse had quickened too, never held him long enough to feel his heart race too, never realized John was in love too. But John knew he couldn't blame Sherlock. After all, even he didn't know he was in love with him. Not until he saw Sherlock's body on the floor, not until his grave was unresponsive to him, not until he had died.

Within an hour, John had showered, dressed, had breakfast and kissed his girlfriend, Mary, goodbye as she went back to her flat and he waited until it was time to go to therapy. It was Saturday. He would always have Saturdays and Sundays to himself as instructed by his doctor. He had no work or social obligations like meeting friends and Mary, but he had to fulfill an hour of therapy. He told his doctor that he felt much better. That he and Mary were stilll going strong. That he was indeed fine.  
But he did not tell her that he felt better because he saw Sherlock everywhere. That he still had conversations with him in his head and at times, pretended he was alive. That he stopped going to his grave and did his best to avoid all signs of his death. And that he managed to avoid all signs except for the looks of sympathy people gave him which he dreaded. But John wasn't completely lying. He was better now, better than what he was when Shelock died. Therapy soon finished.

John reached home and opened the fridge and was disappointed to see milk where severed heads once were, fruit where petri dishes were, he was, however, relieved to see beer. Beer was the only thing in common between the two refrigerators. John lifted the bottle to his lips, the familiar taste bought him comfort. He would drink through the day and night and hallucinate about Sherlock as he had done the weekend before and the weekend before that and the weekend before that. He loved Saturday nights. He would just think and drink and dream. The only one who knew of his weekly drinks was Mycroft. Mycroft seemed to care about John a lot more than John expected him to. Maybe the man did have a heart. It didnt matter. John didn't care. He just slept, bottle in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
